


Cutting Ties

by Ralkana



Category: Star Trek: Voyager
Genre: Backstory, Episode Addition, Ficlet, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-05-22
Updated: 2010-05-22
Packaged: 2017-10-29 02:48:38
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 611
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/315000
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ralkana/pseuds/Ralkana
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Taking a step forward often requires snipping connections to one's past.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Cutting Ties

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer ~ I don't own them; Paramount does. I think if I owned them, they'd have been much, much happier!
> 
> Timeline ~ Takes place at the beginning of Chakotay's trip to Earth with his father in his youth, as seen in the S2 episode _Tattoo_.

 

"Excuse me, sir."

The man looked up from storing his clippers and combs to see a boy in the doorway. The boy was young, in his mid-teens, wearing what looked like homespun clothes, a duffel bag slung over one shoulder.

Being so close to the Academy grounds, the barbershop had seen thousands of new cadets, plenty of those young ones. Rarely as young as this one, though. The man strolled closer, and the boy drew himself up straight, defiance and anxiety warring in his dark eyes.

"Can I help you, son?"

The boy swallowed, a flush rising through his face, turning his bronze cheeks ruddy. "I'd like a haircut, sir."

The man eyed him, his gaze roving over the boy's long, black hair. It fell nearly to his waist in a thick, neat braid.

"You want a trim?" he hazarded.

The boy shook his head. "No, sir. I'd like it cut." He glanced over his shoulder as a group of Starfleet cadets ambled by, laughing. "I want it like theirs."

Theirs was short and neat, cut close to their scalp -- well within Starfleet guidelines. So was the boy's, the man knew. Cultural guidelines, if not grooming ones. He'd have to keep it out of the way, but long was just as acceptable as short.

"Starfleet doesn't require you to cut it off, you know," he gently told the boy.

The boy stiffened even more at the man's mild tone. "It's not for Starfleet," he said, his voice trembling almost imperceptibly with some unknown emotion. "It's for me. I don't need it anymore."

After a moment, the man nodded. "All right, son. Come on in."

The boy tucked his duffel bag under the counter and settled himself in the chair. The man took his braid in hand, assessing it. It was clean and healthy, clearly well cared for, and he stifled his misgivings. It was the kid's choice, after all. Picking up his scissors, he debated asking the boy if he was ready. He vetoed the idea. The boy'd made up his mind, and it wasn't his place to muddy the waters.

The boy flinched at the first heavy snick, his breathing fast and uneven. The man glanced in the mirror and then concentrated again on his work, pretending not to see the way the kid's eyes glistened.

Though the shop bustled with activity around them, they were both completely silent through the whole procedure – a first for the man. Another barber caught sight of that thick braid resting on the man's workstation, and his eyes widened. He started to move closer, but the man shook his head, warning him away with his eyes.

He finished his work and cleaned the boy up, presenting him with the sight of himself in the mirror.

"Well, what do you think?"

The boy stared at his reflection, a maelstrom of emotions moving over his face and flashing through his eyes. Finally, with a small sigh, he nodded.

After the exchange of credits had been taken care of, the man gestured to the braid where it lay on his workstation.

"Would you like to take it with you?" he asked, already knowing the answer.

The boy didn't even glance at it, giving a small shake of his head.

"It's done," he said firmly, heavy finality in his young voice. "Thank you," he added as he picked up his duffel.

"You're welcome," the man replied, just as solemnly.

He watched the boy walk away, one hand rising uncertainly to the back of his newly shorn head, and he sighed.

"Good luck, son," he murmured, once again cleaning up his workstation. "I think you're going to need it."


End file.
